


The True Crime is How We've Made It This Far

by AppleJuiz



Category: Arrow (TV 2012)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, F/M, Getting Together, Goth Felicity, Secret Identity, hacker!Felicity
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-16
Updated: 2016-10-16
Packaged: 2018-08-22 16:26:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,450
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8292362
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AppleJuiz/pseuds/AppleJuiz
Summary: “What the hell are you doing this time?” He asks, unable to sound anything but fond, helplessly enamored, head over heels. 
“If I tell you, I’d have to kill you,” she replies, laughter in her eyes, like they both know she couldn't kill a spider. (Because she can't. They came across one making out in the corner of a drug cartel’s hideout and she shrieked, demanding that he shoot it, so loud he was almost certain they would end up as corpses in the river.)
“You know, one of these days you're going to get arrested,” he sighs. 
“But not by you,” she taunts right back. And she's right. Of course she is. 
***
In which Felicity is a hacker for hire and Oliver can't seem get around to stopping her.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Honestly I don't know where this came from or why I decided to write this than the million other stories I've started but here we are. Anyway I hope you enjoy reading this, because I sure had fun writing it.

“You know, I'm gonna need to know your credit card number at the very least because someone needs to pay for the amount of moisturizer I go through to combat leather chaffing,” she announces, sighing lazily as her eyes trace the swirls of cracks on the ceiling.

She looks beautiful like this, sprawled out and sated, loose limbed and satisfied. A little too relaxed for all the effort he's putting into the bruise he's sucking onto her neck, but perfect nonetheless.

“I'm sure you could hack my credit card just fine on your own,” he grumbles.

She's right. The leather sucks. But he's not just gonna go through the risks of getting a brand new suit just because of this.

Because then he'll have to admit there's a this.

“I could hack your card if I knew your name which I don't. I can't exactly find a card registered to Masked Vigilante of Starling City online. I'd have to figure out who you were first and I'm working on that, but even then there's the risk of finding the wrong guy and stealing money from his card and then having to inevitably explain that yes, I hacked his account but only because my booty call refuses to take off his super uncomfortable crime fighting costume-”

“It's not a costume.”

“-when we have hot, steamy anonymous sex and whoops I thought it was you for a second but clearly not from the horrified look you're giving me and the cops at my front door. Hmmm, that feels nice.”

He's not going for nice. He's going for ‘Holy shit I might get off on this alone’.

“Booty call?” He asks, because he's not sure if he feels good or bad about that.

“Well, how else would you define this?”

A mistake.

Except no, never, this isn't a mistake, it's just… Complicated.

“A layered relationship,” he decides. She snorts.

“An enemies to lovers fic.”

“We’re not enemies.”

“We were.”

“Not really.”

“Gosh you are a romantic at heart, aren't you? Except for the whole, ‘You can never see my face or I'll have to kill you.’”

“You know, you’re the one who said we should keep the lights off.”

“Well, excuse me, but I'm looking out for future me. I'm gonna be in prison hearing about all the people my cellmates killed and they're gonna be like ‘Hey, why are you here?’ and I'll have to say ‘I decided not to turn on the lights while having sex with my vigilante boyfriend.’ I'm going to be the prison idiot.”

“You really don't trust me?”

“No. Just a month ago you were trying to arrest me.”

“I guess,” he says slowly. If he starts to think about this and what they're doing it gets complicated, well more complicated. It's nice being around her and having things be not complicated.

“Anyway, have you come up with a supervillain name for me yet?”

“How about Booty Call?” he suggests. She swats at his head.

“Come on, we’re working with a theme here. Computer programming. That's it.”

“Hard Drive.”

“I hate you.”

The problem is she doesn't, and he doesn't, and that's the whole problem. Because he has three similar but different words on the tip of his tongue that he swallows back down.

***

“I know you don't usually take care of the news circuit criminals, but you're going to want to take a look at this one,” Digg announces, tossing a newspaper at him.

That's how it starts.

The news doesn't know what to call her, referring to her as “the same hacker who deleted hundreds of accounts from the Starling City Bank Database”. That was her first job. The first one they can tie to her anyway.

Grainy security footage shows her tapping away on a kiosk at the bank, an unattended computer at the police station, stepping into an elevator in some big name business. Half the time she's like some 21st century Robin Hood, taking millions of dollars from big name billionaires and companies (like Queen Consolidated). The other half, like this time, she hangs out with a not so great crowd: hacking the SCPD database, the security system at this science lab or this bank, stealing valuable information from corporations. Nothing terribly bad, but helping bad people do bad things.

He finds her in an empty office floor of the Merlyn Global building at three in the morning. He's not even looking for her, because the real problem is Rustle Durnst, on the List, sending shady correspondents about a heist on Merlyn Global. And here she is, hunched over desktop, typing away furiously.

Black hair, almost purple, straight and falling down her back and into her eyes as she works, face bathed in a blue light.

She jumps when an arrow pierces through the center of the monitor, spinning around with her hand on her chest.

“Oh, hi,” she says, as if he's not aiming an arrow at her chest. “You're that vigilante guy from the news. What're they calling you again? It was a lot cooler than my nonexistent code name. I'm super jealous by the way.”

“Who are you?” He asks, voice modifier only really intensifying the growl.

“If I could tell you that, I wouldn't really need a code name anyway,” she responds. “It would defeat the purpose completely. And probably land me in jail, which… Not fun.”

“What are you doing? Are you working with Robert Durnst?” He asks, stepping closer to her.

“Um, a little. It's complicated, you know? I don't really work for anyone, but sometimes people like Mr. Durnst slide a very nice check in my direction and really it's not about the money, I like problem solving, and hacking, so I kinda just…”

“What does he want you to find?” He presses.

“Didn't say, just a code for him to look into a certain section in the company intranet, imports I think. Business stuff, I don't know. That stuff goes right over my head but I know what I need to find,” she explains, shrugging.

“You're quick to sell your boss out,” he says.

“Not my boss,” she corrects. “Look, Mr. Arrow, I don't really care about Durnst or Talbot or any of the other rich jerks who want me to hack this competitor or that bank. You want to stop them, power to you. I certainly won't stand in your way.”

“Well, at the very least that'll get you a plea deal with DA Lance,” he says.

“Plea deal? But I'm not… Oh, I see what you… Are you even allowed to arrest me?” She asks. “Because I'm pretty sure they're not to fond of you over at the police station.”

“I didn't hack them.”

“I don't kill people.”

He notches the arrow, glaring at her. “I kill people who deserve it.”

“And I mess with numbers on a screen,” she explains. “Look, you seem like you have good intentions. Hell, I root for you when I watch the news and stuff, and I'm flattered, really, that I'm on your Hit List-”

“I'm not going to kill you.”

“Either way, I'm honored really, but I can't do jail. There's no WiFi. So I'm gonna have to say goodnight. But if you want to find Durnst, you can check my flash drive.”

“If you think I'm going to just let you leave-”

Her wrist flexes and suddenly all the computers spark and crash. The lights slam off, even the dim lighting from the hall and the emergency lights. He hears her moving in the dark, but then she's gone.

***

The next time he sees her, he thinks she’s a civilian. There’s some douche looking guy with a gun pointed at her in an alley, shouting some nonsense, and he swoops down, slamming the guy to the ground.

“Wow, thanks,” she says, and he swears.

“You?”

“Yeah. I owe you one. You ever need a hacker for anything, just give me a call.” And then she’s picking her backpack off the floor and striding out of the alley.

He lets her go.

***

The time after that, he ducks into a closet to eavesdrop on a meeting, and ends up nose to nose with her.

“What-?” he starts, and she hushes him, holds out a headphone.

“I bugged them,” she explains in a hushed whisper, and he pops the headphone in. Sure enough it’s a perfectly clear transmission of the conversation happening outside.

“Why are you-?”

“Shhh.”

The meeting is short, information about ammunition being shipped to an abandoned warehouse a few miles out of the city, but afterwards two of the men remain, for a long, long time.

She holds up a deck of cards. “I was going to play Solitaire, but do you know Gin Rummy.”

When she sits cross-legged on the floor of the closet, he only hesitates a few seconds before following suit.

***

He screws up. One second of not paying attention and the next he's on the ground, gun at his head by some random thug of the Irish mob. His bow is five meters away, he has nothing to grab or fight with. The thug notches the gun and fingers the trigger and shit, shit, shit-

But the thug is dropping to the ground and there she is, purple highlights and black, skintight clothes and a tablet in her hand that she just slammed into the back of the guy’s skull.

“Frack! Did you see that?” She asks, beaming. “I just decked that guy. Oh wow.”

Tucking the tablet under her arm, she reaches her hand out, and without thinking he takes it, letting her help him up.

“I just totally saved your life,” she says. “Wow.”

“Why are you here?” He asks.

“So that's your real voice.” Shit, the modulator is gone. “Very macho, all grumbly and stuff. Super sexy.”

“What are you doing here?”

“Saving you apparently.”

“Are you working with the Italian mob now?”

“No, jeez. I'm here to hack them. I feel like we know each other pretty well. We’ve been hanging out like this for a few weeks now; I’m not really a fan of the mob scene.”

“Sure, working with the mob crosses the line,” he grumbles.

“You know, I don't appreciate your attitude. I was just a total badass back there and saved your life. even if I was working with the mob, I think I deserve a get out of jail free card this time, or is it just-”

There's an urge in him, an instinct and he relies on instincts when he's out in the field like this, has too, he can't not.

  
So it seems wrong, but he slams her into the wall, hand around her throat, but not choking, and ignored the turning in his stomach at her small sound of shock and pain.

  
"Gosh, the thanks I get for saving your life," she grumbles. "Do you want me to regret it?"

  
"Doesn't change the fact that you're a criminal," Oliver says, and it should come out grumbly and threatening, but instead it's a weird, fond thing. He's too close to her, he realizes. Not emotionally. He's physically too close to her, pressing her against the wall, plastered against her. The leverage of his arm is all wrong, he should be a foot back but he's not.

  
"What’s my crime, trying to keep you around?" she taunts, eyes gleaming. And this is where he says something back, something witty that'll make her laugh, smile sharp and knowing and-

  
Her free hand grips the back of his head and his instincts are screaming. This is when he would fight back, twist away, snap her wrist.

  
He doesn't.

  
She drags him forward, slamming their mouths together and oh...

  
Oh, that's what it is.

  
Her mouth is soft and tastes like a strawberry milkshake from Big Belly Burger. She kisses like she speaks, fast and eager and nimble. He can't help but respond in kind, until they're building off each other, in sync, complimentary. It's more of a conversation than a kiss, a back and forth, give and take,intimate like he's spilling every last secret he has.

And then she's hiking her legs up, around his waist. His hand slides back until he's cupping the back of her head, twisting his fingers in her dark, dark hair. He has an arm under her thighs, her hand on his bicep, nails digging in. He presses closer or she pulls him closer, until he can't tell what's separating them any more, until he can feel her pressing on his soul, burning like a brand.

And then she’s pushing him away, looking flustered with her chest heaving, lips red and wet, and he wants to kiss her again, wants to melt into her and… he comes back to himself suddenly, her hand on his shoulder like lead, grounding him, pulling him back into the present. This has never happened before. He’s never lost focus like this before.

“I don’t put out until after my date buys dinner,” she explains, wry and light, like she wasn’t as stunned and weak in the knees as he was. “So…”

And he should take her in, not get distracted like this, he never gets distracted like this-

“You wanna find a restaurant that’ll serve us like this?” he asks, raising an eyebrow. She laughs, and when she pushes at his shoulder, he steps back without resistance, setting her down to her feet.

“Tell you what, next time we have a midnight rendezvous-”

“These aren’t-”

“Bring me some hamburgers and maybe I’ll let that count.” She strides away, and he does nothing, stands there dumbstruck.

“Cheeseburger?” he calls after her.

“Sure,” she replies and he doesn’t need to see her to know she’s smiling, delighted.

“Do you want fries or no fries?”

“You gonna write it down?”

“Maybe.”

“Then, throw in some fries, and don't let them be stingy with the sauce.”

Digg’s going to kill him.

***

(Digg doesn’t kill him. Just looks at him, really hard, for a really long time, and shakes his head.)

***

He doesn’t think about it. He can’t begin to think about it because there’s no excuse, there’s no way to rationalize what he’s doing. He stops criminals. Sometimes she’s there, watching, grinning. And sometimes, every time she’s there, they fall into each other, making out against the nearest flat surface until they’re both breathing heavy and halfway to already ripping off each other’s clothes.

But then she’ll drag him off or he’ll drag her off to a car or a hotel room or on one memorable occasion, the mattress section of a Target, and everything shifts in a second. There’s no more rush or desperation, it’s no longer adrenaline or lust or anything else in the heat of the moment that he tries to excuse it as. It’s just as intense and rough, but tender, thoughtful, brutally real. It’s making love, hard and fast, until his chest is full of the feeling of her and he feels like he’ll burst at the seams with how much he feels.

She’s beautiful, the most beautiful thing he’s ever seen, and he can’t seem to get enough of her, can’t seem to bear a second around her that doesn’t involve skin on skin, touching and kissing and pushing closer and closer and she throws her head back, moaning, writhing and-

John always shoots him an unimpressed look when he gets back, and he can’t help but feel guilty, not of her, but of the fact that he can’t find a single way to explain it, doesn’t know why he tries.

And every week he finds someone else to go after, someone else in the book or on the news, and explains it away with, “We need to have priorities.”

“Yeah, priorities,” John echoes, but never says anything, just looks mildly amused.

There’s no excuse for it and he can’t explain it and whenever he thinks about it at all…

Well, there’s one excuse for it, but he doesn’t even dare to think it.

***

They’ve been doing this song and dance for months.

And he's in too deep, because he walks into this warehouse and sees an array of monitors and servers and his heart starts pounding. She's sitting there in a swirly chair, twisting back and forth and back and forth, probably stuck on whatever program she's trying to write.

There's this urge to walk right over, wrap his arms around her shoulders, lean his chin on her shoulder and watch her work.

He lowers his bow and walks over to her. She jumps when he clears his throat behind her, and spins around to glare at him. He can't help but smile.

“What the hell are you doing this time?” He asks, unable to sound anything but fond, helplessly enamored, head over heels.

“If I tell you, I’d have to kill you,” she replies, laughter in her eyes, like they both know she couldn't kill a spider. (Because she can't. They came across one making out in the corner of a drug cartel’s hideout and she shrieked, demanding that he shoot it, so loud he was almost certain they would end up as corpses in the river.)

“You know, one of these days you're going to get arrested,” he sighs.

“But not by you,” she taunts right back. And she's right. Of course she is.

“No probably not,” he agrees. Something in her face changes, goes solemn and worried, and he tries to think of what he could have said. “Not because we-”

“Wait,” she says, staring over his shoulder and then something heavy is coming down on the back of his head and he crumples to the ground.

***

It's not the first time he wakes up with his hands tied behind his back and it probably won't be the last.

“I need you to trust me,” she's saying, voice strained, sounding impatient and frustrated.

“And I need you to make smart choices so we both don't end up in jail.” He doesn't like this new guy. He sounds snobby and rude, and he's not being nice to her.

“You think I want to end up in jail.”

“He's the guy from the news. The vigilante who goes around killing criminals. We are criminals,” the guy hisses.

“I know who he is, alright? We can trust him.”

“No, we can’t. He poses a risk to this entire operation.”

“Yes, my operation, Cooper, not yours.”

“You asked me to consult. This is me consulting. You let him go, and you’ll end up in jail, and so will I for being an accomplice.”

“Look, we leave now, take everything, clear the servers, and send an untrackable tip to the police. We’d be in the clear, for good. With him out of the way-”

“No.”

“Fel-”

“No. We’re not turning him in, and we’re not leaving him chained up here.”

“Fine, then I’m out. I’m not going to stay on a sinking ship, and you’re shooting yourself in the foot with this.”

“That analogy doesn’t work.”

The guy storms off, huffing and muttering under his breath. She turns, shaking her head, eyebrows pinched.

“Sorry,” she says, shrugging. “This is why I prefer working alone.”

“Who the hell was that?”

“As of a minute ago, he was my partner-in-actual-crime, but now he quit, so I guess I’m finishing this project alone, which is going to suck,” she explains. “Hey, how advanced is your knowledge of algorithms?”

“I failed high school Calculus,” he replies, shrugging as best he can with his hands behind his back.

“That’s not even… Great,” she sighs.

“What are you planning anyway?”

It earns him a smile. “Oh, perfect. Now that I have you all tied up, I can tell you all about my evil plans. I’ve never given a villain monologue before so bear with me. Alse my evil laugh is terrible, so no judgement.”

  
“Do I have to stay tied up?” He asks.

“Yes, let's have a kinky sex life.”

“What is what we have now not wild enough for you?”

She rolls her eyes, but grabs a knife from somewhere on the desk.

“Seriously though, what are you up to?” he asks as she walks around and saws through the rope around his wrists.

“Just some fun corporate espionage,” she explains. Once his hands are free he turns, pinning her wrists to the wall. She grins, tilting her head back, staring at him unimpressed.

“How much are you getting paid for this one?” he asks.

“Nothing. It’s just a little passion project of mine,” she says, pressing her forehead to his.

“Anything I should be concerned about?”

“I'm going to say no, but I might be biased.”

“Should I just move onto the next mob boss with an evil plan?”

“Maybe,” she say slowly. “Or maybe I can take a break and see if your hardware needs a tuneup.”

He tries to look unimpressed, but it's hard in the face of her smug smile.

“Or maybe-”

There's a crash across the warehouse, one of the doors slamming open. He has an arrow notched and aimed in a second. The guy from before is back.

“What-?”

“It's the Italians,” he say, eyes wide, breathing heavy.

“What about them?” She asks, peering out from around his shoulder

“They’re here.”

“Shit,” she hisses, and pushes right past him, rushing for the computers. “Wipe the laptops.”

“But-”

“Cooper!”

Cooper sprints off, and she plops into the office chair, fingers flying across the keyboard. He springs into action as well, heading to secure the first door.

“Look, I can handle the Italians,” he announces. “You should get out of here.”

“You don't have to protect me,” she replies, sliding and grabbing another keyboard. He doesn’t even try to pretend that isn’t the primary reason.

“I’m going to deal with them anyway. It’s kind of my job. Might as well do it now,” he says.

“Well, I’m not just going to leave you here. We haven’t gotten to the steamy part of the evening yet and also I kind of don’t want to leave you to die.”

“I’ll be fine.”

“Still.” He finishes barricading the second door the same time she yanks out a long thick plug and the entire set up of computers goes dark.

“Seriously, just go.”

“Seriously, I don’t think so.”

“So what you’re going to stick around. I thought you don’t kill people.”

“I don’t. Let’s ditch.”

“We can't just-” The rest of his words are drowned out by gunfire and a door being kicked it.

“Did you not get the back door?” she shouts, ducking behind the desk.

“There was a back door?”

This he knows. Notching an arrow, letting it fly, not even having to watch it arch through the air and hit his target perfectly. It's easy as breathing, easier than navigating a single conversation with this girl.

“This is a lot different than TV shootouts,” she calls.

“Shut up,” he growls, notches another arrow.

He blames her, later. It's hard to blame her, but if she wasn't too goddamn much…

“Hey!” She screams, and then he's being tackled, full force to the ground. He's close enough to hear her whimper in pain. Her clothes are dark but he can see her shoulder getting darker, wet. He rolls them over, draped over her like a blanket as the bullets fly over their heads.

“Shit, shit, are you alright?” He breathes. When he puts his hand on her shoulder it comes away red. “Shit. Hey, don’t do this. Don’t- Just hold on.”

She groans, eyes squeezing shut.

He pushes up and away from her, enough to notch another arrow and take out the mobster behind them.

This is the easy part.

***

“What the hell?” John protests when he carries her into the Foundry.

Her shoulder is still bleeding sluggishly. She's pale and shivering in his arms, but breathing steady, puffs of air blowing across his throat. He sets her down on the medical table, throws down his quiver and everything else, sets about grabbing gauze and antiseptics.

“Oliver, what is she doing here?” Digg asks.

“She's injured,” he snaps out.

“And….?”

“And I don't have time to explain. Just help me.”

“What happened?”

“She got shot in the shoulder, doesn't seem to have hit anything important but there's no exit wound and she lost a lot of blood.”

Digg sighs, but grabs a pair of latex gloves anyway, tossing them to the table. He carefully peels her shirt off, careful not to jostle her arm and she groans, deep in her throat.

“Sorry,” he mutters, even though she's half unconscious and it doesn't matter anyway. There's a lot of blood, streaking along her arm and collarbone. Digg hands him a towel, and he swipes across her skin, swearing under his breath.

His hand doesn’t shake.

She whimpers, eyes fluttering. Her hand reaches out, fisting in his shirt, but he doesn’t falter. Getting the bullet out is relatively easy. Stitching up the wound is a blur. It’s only after he wraps her shoulder in gauze, and she’s lying back on the table, asleep, wrapped in a blanket, that his brain finally catches up.

“You okay, man?” Digg asks, and he braces himself on the table, hanging his head.

“I didn’t get shot,” he offers, shrugging.

“Yeah, well, you look like you’re about to fall over. What happened?”

“The Italians, I guess, were after her for the hacking job she did a few months ago.”

“And you brought her back here-”

“She took a bullet for me.” Saying it out loud makes it seem ridiculous. She jumped in front of a bullet for him. “If she hadn’t… Well, I don’t know.”

Digg is silent, staring at her, eyebrows furrowed.

“That’s… big,” he says.

“Yeah,” he agrees. “Yeah, it is.”

***

She wakes up a few hours later. He’s sitting by her, almost asleep himself, holding her hand (after almost an hour of debating whether or not he should). Her hand tightens around his fractionally, eyes fluttering open.

“Ow,” she grumbles. “That’s two you owe me now.”

He huffs out a breath, half a laugh, half a sigh of relief. She sits up and he jumps to his feet, hand on her uninjured shoulder to keep her steady.

“You lost a lot of blood,” he explains.

“Cool,” she says, grinning. “Do you think it'll scar? I've always wanted a scar.” He's not sure why he's surprised. When she was asleep, still and calm and unnaturally silent, he almost forgot who he was dealing with.

“Why did you do that?”

“Do what?” She asks, genuine, like she doesn't realize she took a bullet for him.

“You got shot protecting me. Why did you do it?” He asks softly. She shrugs, smiling fading.

“Truthfully, I have abandonment issues,” she offers, an attempt at levity. He raises an eyebrow. “Kinda also didn't want you to die.”

“You can't do that again,” he says, leaning in, moving his hand up to cup her cheek.

“Well, you being dead would put a damper on this relationship,” she protested, voice softening.

“I don't want you to get hurt. Not for me. I've had worse, trust me.”

“Well, I don't want you to get hurt either. Even if you've had worse. That's what you do for people you lo- care about.” She looks away, staring down at her hands.

He presses his lips to her forehead, and she closes her eyes, leaning into him.

“I care about you, too, you know?” he whispers. She smiles, wraps her arms around his waist, like she didn't.

“Well, of course. Why else would you show me your super cool lair? Thanks for not taking me to a hospital by the way,” she says. He leans down, brushing his nose against hers and catching her mouth in his.

She hums in the back of her throat, pressing closer to him. It's shockingly tender, passionate. For once, everything doesn't feel confusing. The feelings swirling around in his chest seem to fit, just right. He loves her. That's all that matters.

“Hey, Oliver!” Digg calls, and they jolt apart. “I'm heading out.”

“Alright, have a good night!” He calls, and miraculously his voice is steady. She buries her face in his neck, giggling quietly until they hear the door close.

“Oliver?” She asks, glancing up at him, unimpressed. Shit. He must look as shocked, because she laughs.

The bigger shock is that, really, he doesn't care. He wants her to know his name. He wants to take off the stupid mask, wants her to see him, wants to see her. He doesn't care who she is or what she's done. It's her. It's-

“Felicity,” she whispers, mouth against his ear.

It's Felicity. That's all that matters.

***

(He’s meeting Walter in the office. Early, too early, so early that even though he had a steaming mug of coffee at home, he still steps into the Starbucks two blocks away from the building, rubbing at his eyes, and stifling a yawn.

She’s a blonde.

The second he walks in he sees her, and the second he sees her, he’s wide awake like a bolt of lightning just tore through his body.

It’s her. There’s no way this kind of coincidence could happen, but it’s her, he knows it. He knows her.

She’s a blonde, wears her hair in a tight ponytail, curled slightly at the ends, roots dark and he wants to run his fingers through her hair. She wears glasses, her eyes are blue and she wears bright colors and high heels and she’s waiting for her coffee, swaying back and forth on her feet, eyes drooping closed and then jolting open.

The barista is waiting for his order and he reads out the first thing he sees on the menu, oh boy, and then shoves the cash into the man’s hand and doesn’t wait for the change.

She has freckles, he knew that, but they seem different in the daylight. She seems different in the daylight.

He weaves through the crowd of people also half asleep, waiting for their drinks, until he’s next to her and this… this is her, this is her life, this is her hair, this is her in the daylight.

They don’t know each other. He, Oliver Queen, doesn't know her at all. He, the Arrow, knows her more intimately than he knows anyone else, and she knows about him than anyone, than Thea, than Tommy, than his mother, than Digg. She has seen him, has laid a claim on his soul, has wedged her way into his heart, except… this her hasn’t. This her hasn’t even met him yet. And this him should pay no attention to this her.

He walks up to her anyway.

“Good morning, Felicity,” he says, breathes, standing at her side, staring at her hair and her glasses and her skirt. She jolts, swinging around to face him, opening her mouth to say something and then freezing. He watches her take in his suit, his face, his eyes.

She smiles, slowly, almost shyly which he’s never seen on her before.

“Good morning, Oliver Queen,” she replies, voice soft, slightly teasing, eyebrow raising, asking ‘Really? This is who you are? Billionaire? Really?’.

He rolls his eyes, but steps closer and runs his fingers through her blonde, wavy hair. She shrugs, leans into his touch when he runs his fingers along her cheek.

“A wig?” He asks, quietly even though it's loud enough that they won't be overheard.

“No, I dye my hair twice a day,” she teases. He smiles.

“I was wondering if you’d be interested in going out to dinner with me,” he asks, and that gets a laugh out of her.

“I’ll have to think about it,” she teases, and they’re close, so close, noses almost brushing, and her eyes are so blue-

“Felicity!” the barista calls. They both startle, and she disappears and reappears in moments, coffee in hand, a flurry of motion and color.

“Well, that's my cue,” she says, taking a sip of the coffee. “Ah, the gods’ divine nectar in hand, I now venture out into the grey, gloomy metropolis of corporate America.”

She rambles. She had before but not like this, all open and carefree and smiling. He wants to listen to it forever.

“Can I walk you to your boring grey building, then?” he asks. Felicity grins like she knows he completely forgot about his own coffee, and nods, striding towards the door, heels clacking against the tile floor.

“Funny story,” she says, as they duck into the chilly breeze and join the flow of pedestrians. “I think we’re heading in the same direction.”)

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks again!!! Please let me know what you thought and feel free to send me prompts on tumblr at applejuiz as well. ;)


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